“Are you kidding?” Penny asks. “If it were me we’d still be sitting there trying to get me to step on the gas.”
“And I would’ve floored it, and he probably would’ve cracked the windshield,” Nelly says. Peter gives a little cough. “You wanted to take off fast, too. Right, Pete? That’s why you yelled for her to go?” There’s a warning in his voice.
“Not fast enough to crack a windshield,” Peter replies.
I can see him in the rear view mirror; his jaw clenched. He hates when people call him Pete, which Nelly knows, without a doubt.
“Thanks,” I say, to everyone but Peter. “I won’t be as slow next time. I thought we were pretty safe here, but if that guy is just wandering around…”
“It doesn’t look good,” James finishes. “I can drive whenever you want.”
46
The houses that looked empty now look menacing; their dead eyes watch us as we go past. I jump every time I think I see a pale face at a window, a corpse inside waiting to be freed. I would think that after days of this my heart would have ceased going into overdrive, but the body knows when it’s threatened, and it isn’t going to let me pretend otherwise. Maria said the virus lives in the brain, where our most primitive reactions are based. It occurs to me that if I allow my brain stem to do its reptilian job in response, I just might live.
The holster digs into my side in the backseat. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. I’ve never particularly liked pistols. They’ve always scared me a bit, even though I’ve shot them more times than I can remember. My dad liked to carry a gun; it was an extension of his body, a tool. Like a hammer. I feel as if I’m using a table saw with no safety cover, no goggles, and my eyes closed. Like any second it might start going off wildly, despite my attempts to control it.
My dad said I was a natural at shooting targets, and I did enjoy it. But I’m not like Nelly, who holds a gun with ease, who never frowns at the weight of it in his hand like it’s a venomous snake. I’ve never wanted a gun for protection, afraid it was more dangerous to carry than anything I might come up against in daily life. But now I’m glad it’s here. The heaviness weighs me down, roots me, and reminds me that at any instant I might have to use it. I just hope I’m still a good shot.
There are just over thirty miles left. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but it could be impossible. People drive that far to get a gallon of milk around here. Or they did; both small stores we passed were dark.
It’s about ten miles to Bellville, the town my family would visit on summer evenings for a scoop of ice cream or Fourth of July fireworks. This wasn’t our usual route, but I’ve spent enough of my life here to have traveled this road before. The farm with the wagon wheel mailbox means we’re only five miles away. I say this aloud. Everyone nods, but the car is silent.
Peter’s on the other end of the backseat. His profile is still and his eyes flick back and forth at the passing scenery. This morning he mumbled an apology at me, and I tried to be gracious about it. It’s okay, it was a mistake, I said, and tried smiling at him. His answering smile was bitter, and he went back to loading the truck. He’s so angry at me, maybe at everything. Peter’s always wanted for nothing, except the things that really matter. He’s always had money and charm to fall back on, but now all the superficial armor that protected him is gone.
Maybe somewhere in there is that guy I glimpsed now and again in his generosity or in the gentle way he would treat me, which was so at odds with the way the rest of the world saw him. I wish I could smooth things over. Maybe it’s not possible. But he’s here, and though I want to kick him much of the time, I’m kind of glad. He may hate me, but I still care enough about him to want him safe.
47
A painted wooden sign welcomes us to Bellville. A police car sits sideways across the road, surrounded by a jumble of cars. Three men pop up from behind it. One rests a huge rifle on its roof while the others hold their hands up until we stop.
“Okay,” shouts a tall, blond man. “Everyone out of the truck.”
“Should we get out?” James asks. “Maybe we should just turn around. Is there another way?”
“It’s another forty miles of driving, at least,” I say. “And no guarantee we won’t run into another roadblock.” On the plus side, if they’ve got the town barricaded, everyone must be well.
We spill out of the truck as two men move forward and leave the one with the rifle trained on us. The second man is bulky, with brown hair that looks like it was cut with a butter knife, and small, mean eyes.
“Where you folks headed?” asks the tall one.
I step forward a couple of inches. “Headed to my folks’ place, about twenty miles north.”
“Any of you sick?”
We shake our heads. It’s a good thing we didn’t try to pass through here while we were ill with whatever was in the water. They look like they plan to shoot first and ask questions later. We still don’t look that great, and there have been an embarrassing number of pit stops today, but all in all we don’t look infected.
“Well, we’re not letting anyone into town. You’ll have to find another way up there.”
“We just need to pass through, up Bell Street,” I plead. “It’ll save us forty miles and we’re really low on gas. You can escort us.”
He shakes his head. “We don’t have time to escort anyone anywhere. Over half the town’s gone to the Safe Zone outside Albany. National Guard came through a few days ago and told people it was their only chance. So they took it.”
The bulky one narrows his already small eyes. “Why aren’t you headed for a Safe Zone?”
“We were already at one in New Jersey,” Nelly says. “We got out by the skin of our teeth after the infected got in. I’m sure you’re not there for the same reason. You figure you can protect your families, yourselves.”
“Damn straight. But we’re still not letting you through. Sheriff’s orders.”
Hope spreads in my chest. “Sam? Sheriff Price?” I ask.
The tall one raises an eyebrow. “You know the sheriff?”
“I do. He’ll know my name. Can you please tell him that Cassie Forrest is here?”
Mean-eyes tightens his mouth, but the other answers first. “All right, I’ll give him a radio call. Sit tight.”
They walk back to the cruiser and speak into the radio. I try not to stare, afraid they’ll suddenly refuse to help if we make one wrong move. Besides, the rifle’s still on us.
“This is no joke,” Nelly says. He leans on the truck, hands in pockets, looking nonchalant. He barely inclines his head toward town. “Don’t look. They’ve got people on the roofs. I’ve seen two so far.”
“They’re not fucking around,” James agrees. “We’ll siphon more gas if they don’t let us in. I just want to get out of here.”
I nod. It’s not worth all of this. I’m about to say so when the tall guy opens the cruiser door and smiles. He walks toward us with Mean-Eyes dogging his footsteps.
“Well, Cassie Forrest,” he says, and extends his hand, “Sam’s real glad you’re here. Name’s Will Bishop, by the way. Sorry about the welcome, but we’ve had some trying to pass through with infected people.”
He hooks his thumb at his partner. “This is Neil Curtis.”
Neil gives us a nod, and when he takes in our group his eyes linger too long on me, Penny and Ana. His eyes have no depth, like a dumb, unpredictable dog. Some of those dogs are mean, while some are so enamored with tennis balls that there’s no room in their brains for anything else. This dog right here is mean, though; I can see that.
James moves forward to block us from view. I appreciate the sentiment, but the past week has made him look frail enough to blow away on a stiff breeze. Neil notices, though, and quickly hides a look that’s much too heated. Mean dog.
“We’ll move the cruiser so you can get past,” Will Bishop says. “Sam’s down at the Town Hall. You know where you’re going?”
“I do. Thank you.”
/> 48
Sam stands outside Town Hall and raises his eyebrows when he sees what we’re driving. I jump out as soon as the truck stops and run to him.
He grabs both my hands and gives me a hug. “Cassie, it’s been too long. How are you? Are you okay?”
It’s so nice to see a face I know that I can’t stop smiling. I give him a brief synopsis of our trip as everyone joins us.
“Come along inside,” Sam says. He removes his hat and opens the door. “State police office isn’t safe. It’s where everyone who got bitten went, followed by everyone who got scared and then got bitten there. Thankfully, not too many have made their way here so far.”
Sam directs us into a room with old windows that let in the late morning light. He sits on a wooden bench and motions for us to do the same. He looks just as he did three years ago, when he came to the house to tell me about the accident. The deep, dragging lines in his long face are still there. Or maybe they’re recently back. This is a crisis that blows a parental car crash out of the water.
“We’ve got the main intersection blocked off,” he continues. “Pretty much everyone’s moved down to the junior-senior high school. It’s got a generator. We’re moving the equipment here to the school office.”
“It must be cramped,” I say. “I know half the town’s gone, but that’s still more than a thousand people.”
“A thousand? Where’d you get that idea? Most of the town is gone. There’re about two hundred of us left, that’s all.”
“At the roadblock. They said half the town was gone.”
“Oh, they’re saying that to discourage people from getting the idea they should try to take us on. I’m glad you thought to ask for me, since we’re not letting anyone through. One—what did you call them? Lexer? They’ve been calling them Biters around here. One gets through and that could be the end. Anyway, they’re doing the best they can over by the roadblocks. They’re all scared.”
He puts his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. There’s so much to think of, and he looks beat-up and bleary-eyed from trying to anticipate it all.
“There’s one guy down there, Neil, I think his name is? I understand the un-welcoming committee, but he’s…” James trails off with a shrug.
Sam rubs his chin and sighs. “Yeah, Neil’s family’s lived around here for generations. They’re like pit bulls, constantly inbreeding and making a meaner animal. Neil’s been doing good down at the roadblock, but he can be trouble. Run up against the law a few times. I’m keeping him close, don’t worry.”
He turns back to me. “You’re welcome to stay at the school if you want. We could use some extra hands. We’ve got a lot of families left. A quarter of our numbers are children.”
I don’t want to let him down, but the thought of staying here makes me nervous. I don’t want to tell him what I’m really thinking—that they’re sitting ducks.
“The house is still stocked up, Sam. And Eric—you remember my brother?—he’s meeting me. I’d feel better if we were there. I’m sorry.”
He nods. “I figured you’d say that. Listen, you didn’t tell anyone where the house is, did you?” We shake our heads. “Let’s keep it that way. Some people might just be tempted to come by. I’ll check up on you in a few days. The National Guard unit that came through said they’re expecting this to be over in a month. Said the Biters would—disintegrate, is how the man put it. We can all last that long, right?”
“Of course we can,” I say. This is very welcome news. A month until this is over.
The radio on Sam’s belt crackles. I can’t understand a word, but he replies. “I’ve got to run some folks to the north block and then I’ll be there.”
He clips it back to his belt as we stand. “You’ve got enough gas?”
There used to be fuel at the house, for the generator, but I don’t want to count on it. I look to James, who answers, “We’ve got about a quarter tank.”
“Should be enough to get you to town a couple times. We’re conserving gas for the generator, but next time you come down, we should be able to spare some from what we’re siphoning.”
The sun is bright when we step outside. I turn to Sam and shield my eyes from the glare with my hand. “Why didn’t you go with the Guard?”
Sam’s hat is back on his head and his eyes are in shadow, but his mouth tightens. “I was in Albany on Sunday. It was a complete fuckshow, pardon my French. People ignoring the curfew, infected wandering the streets. I’ve been listening on the police radio for the past week and honestly, Cassie, I think—hell, I know—they’re in over their heads. When I heard the plan was to move us to a more populated place, I thought they had to be out of their minds. I offered to set them up here; we could’ve used the help. But they had their orders. I tried to get more folks to stay, but they felt more secure with the Army.” The decision is weighing on him.
“We were in one of those so-called Safe Zones. It might be the least safe place I can think of. You made the right decision.”
Even if it won’t be enough, it’s still the better choice. But they did say a month, I remind myself. It should be enough.
“Oh, Cassie, I really hope so.”
49
We follow the paved road out of town for about twenty miles before the turnoff. I’ve moved the star ring to my clean pair of jeans, and I use the word clean very lightly. Mostly puke-free would be a better description. I circle the outline of the ring in my pocket and think of the first time I brought Adrian to the cabin.
Adrian and I pulled up at lunchtime, as the last strains of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” died out. It was a tradition that began with my mom’s John Denver cassette tape when I was young. I would make them play it on the last road to the house. I had pulled out the CD at the turn and popped it in. Adrian laughed at the corniness of it, but still sang with me at the top of his lungs. After all those months he was used to my idiosyncrasies.
We sat in the car and listened to the clicking car engine mix with the sounds of the house: the soft clucking of chickens, the wind in the trees, a dish clanking in the kitchen.
“Ready?” I asked.
I knew he was nervous. He’d met my parents a few times, but this was a long weekend in their house. A whole different ball of wax.
“It looks just how I pictured it,” he said.
I tried to see it through his eyes: the weathered logs of the cabin, the picture windows my parents installed, the porch that ran the breadth of the front, with table and chairs, the porch swing at the end. The flowers my mother babied surrounded the house with a riot of bright colors. But all I could see was home. I hoped that Adrian would love it there as much as I did.
My parents came out the screen door as we retrieved our bags. My dad grabbed me in a bear hug and tickled my neck with his beard. My mom gave Adrian a hug. Her long hair was in a braid and her laugh lines deepened as she welcomed him with the signature warmth that drew people to her.
“You can always tell when Cassie is coming down the road,” she said, humming a few notes. She had a soft spot for the song, since she grew up in West Virginia. You could still hear the mountains in her voice if you listened carefully. “Lunch is ready. I made a few things since I wasn’t sure what you liked, Adrian.”
I translated for Adrian. “That means there’s enough food for fifteen people inside.”
“No, no, I practiced restraint. There’s only enough for ten.” She laughed and then swatted my dad when he shook his head and mouthed, “Fifteen.”
The wood walls and floor were a warm honey color in the sunlight that came through the loft. When I was a kid I would spend hours painting up there, feeling very serious as I worked in what I thought of as my art studio. There were supplies up there still.
The big farmhouse table sat next to the kitchen, which was open to the rest of the house. Eric and I would tease my mom and say that was why she always went overboard with food: she was feeding the ten chairs instead of the people. It was loaded
with cold cuts and hummus, homemade potato salad, three kinds of bread that she probably baked herself, yogurt, some sort of pasta, two pies and lots of fruit.
“There are chips and some—” mom began, as Adrian started talking.
“This looks great, M—”
She cut Adrian off and held a hand in front of her. “You aren’t about to call me Mrs. Forrest, are you? Because I refuse to answer, remember? I get enough of that at school all year. Please, please call me Abby.”
She put a plate down in front of him while he smiled and promised to never do it again.
“Well, you can call me Pat, or Patrick or whatever you’d like. Just don’t call me late for supper,” Dad said. Mom and I groaned; he loved to act hokey.
I could see Adrian relaxing. My parents had a way of doing that to people. Dad heaped a plate like he hadn’t eaten in days, which couldn’t possibly be the case with my mom around. I wanted some of everything, and tried to figure out where to start.
Mom plunked a fork and a jar of her canned peaches in front of me. Now there was no contest. Nothing in the world compares to a home-canned peach; it’s like summer in a jar. I stabbed peaches and plopped them in my mouth, their cool sweetness exploding on my tongue.
“Savage!” she said. But she loved that we all adored her food. “That’s almost the end of last summer’s peaches. I got a couple of batches done yesterday but thought we’d do some more tomorrow. If you want to, that is. You can take a bunch back to school with you.”
“Definitely.”
I handed Adrian the fork with a half of a peach on it. He ate it in a single bite as we all watched him, like it was some sort of test.
“Wow. That’s really good. No, better than good,” he said, passing the test, since you could tell he meant it.
“We’re having them over homemade ice cream tonight,” Dad said. He scoured his beard with a napkin and rubbed his gut.
Until the End of the World Box Set Page 16
